


Time To Come Home, Brother Dear!

by E_J_Morgan



Series: Q-niverse AU [28]
Category: James Bond (Craig movies), Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Gen, Q is a Holmes, Teenage!Q
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-04-14
Updated: 2017-05-05
Packaged: 2018-10-18 17:26:50
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 4
Words: 17,313
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10621659
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/E_J_Morgan/pseuds/E_J_Morgan
Summary: Q-niverse AU - When Sherlock gets captured in Serbia, Mycroft and Q join forces to bring him home.





	1. I. Prepare for the War

**Author's Note:**

> So, this is the last installment of the series in this timeline, and I hope it will explain some of Q's already often hinted anxieties. - to him as well as to you all. 
> 
> Happy Easter, everyone! :)

„Myc, Myc!” – Shouted Q as he was running towards Holmes Manor, having just jumped out of 004’s Ferrari he had used to race here as soon as possible. He’d worry about any rules he had broken with his frantic stunt driving later. – „Myc!” – He screamed again while rushing upstairs to Mycroft’s bedroom.

 

Mycroft hurried to meet him at the top of the stairs in full panic mode.

 

“Jesus, Benedict, what happened? Is something wrong?”

 

“Yes!” – Panted the boy, holding his side in pain. – “Something is very wrong!”

 

“Are you feeling sick? Is it maybe your appendix?”

 

“My what?” – The boy was totally confused. What was his idiotic brother talking about?

 

“You’re holding your side! I’ll call an ambulance! I---“

 

“It’s not me, it’s Sherlock! He’s been captured!”

 

The oldest brother stopped halfway back to his bedroom where he had most probably wanted to grab his cell from, and turned around towards the boy in alarm.

 

“Oh my God! How? Where? Tell me everything!”

 

“He… he… Oh, Myc!” – He burst out in tears but angrily wiped his eyes immediately afterwards. It was not the time for childish hysterical outbursts! He squared his shoulders and continued: – “He is in Serbia. He killed two members of Moriarty’s web but three others came and he couldn’t take them all at once… They got him, Myc!”

 

“Damn.”

 

“I was in his ear the whole time. I tried to warn him but he wouldn’t listen… Oh, God. They won’t kill him for a while, that’s sure, because they want to question him. They know he’s had help but they don’t know how… That’s what they’re asking him all the time. How he has done it all these last few months. They know about everything and seem to have been waiting for him. He has been set up, Myc.”

 

“Can you still communicate with him?”

 

“No, I lost connection around a quarter of an hour ago. I think the equipment might be damaged by… water... they used to question him.” – He explained with self-loathing. His gadgets had betrayed him!

 

“Benedict, listen to me. It’s not your fault, you hear?”

 

“But I---“ – Mycroft grabbed his narrow shoulders and shook him hard.

 

“No, silly little boy, pay attention to what I am saying: you have done more than anyone would ever have expected; more than anyone could have done or even hoped for. You helped Sherlock through 8 countries and countless missions for over four months. We always knew there was a risk and it’s _not_ your fault! But I’ll need your help rescuing him and we can’t afford for you to fall to pieces right now.”

 

Q knew very well his brother was right. He was a professional for God’s sake, what the hell was wrong with him? He was the Quartermaster of MI6, had done this numerous times and he needed to behave accordingly, damn it!

 

“Yes, yes, you’re right of course, I’m sorry. I’ll do anything in my power to help him. And you.”

 

Mycroft nodded before releasing him then took a deep breath.

 

“Can we count on some help from the local authorities?”

 

“Yes, of course, it’s no problem. I have contacts by their secret agency. I’ll arrange it.”

 

“I’m also going to travel there. I want to be the one bringing him out personally.”

 

“What!? Why? Forget it, there are people trained for exactly that! I’ll make a few calls right away…” – He wanted to leave but his brother grabbed his arm, jerking him back with one firm movement. Q was still small and light enough to be manhandled easily that way but that didn’t mean he appreciated the treatment!

 

“You’re not going to do any such thing right now. I’ll need their help but only when I’m there too. It’s a very delicate matter and still top secret. However much I may want to, we can’t rush this. It would be dangerous. And I hope I don’t have to remind you that MI6 absolutely can’t know anything about this whole affair.”

 

Q angrily pulled his arm out of Mycroft’s hold.

 

“Oh, of course, it’s so much better if I’ll lose you too! Okay. Well, then I’m going with you!” – Declared the boy stubbornly, crossing his arms in front of his chest, indicating his determination not to budge on the matter whatever Mycroft said or did.

 

“I’m sorry; we don’t have time to travel by train. I’m going to take my private plane there to be able to arrive as soon as possible. Sherlock’s life could depend on it.”

 

“I know that; I’m not stupid. I’ll go with you on the plane.”

 

Mycroft actually looked taken aback by that proposition.

 

“Benedict… you don’t have to.”

 

“I know. And yet I will. End of the story.”

 

“But you can’t even go near an airport! You’re going to pass out.”

 

“As a matter of fact, I have been training myself to be able to go near an airport for a while and I can watch planes from afar and listen to them by now without feeling sick. I’ll be fine.”

 

“You realize you’d actually need to get _into_ the airplane and then spend over two hours _in_ it in the air, don’t you? It’s not the same as watching them from the ground.”

 

Q stomped his foot impatiently.

 

“Details! Mycroft, useless _details_! Come on, it’s for Sherlock! Our brother! Family! I would let my legs be cut off for him; don’t you think I’ll manage getting on a plane?”

 

“It’s also going to be very dangerous in Serbia.” – Reminded him the oldest brother, desperate to talk the younger one out of the idea of following him into danger. If all of them died there, it would be over with the Holmes family forever.

 

Now the boy really rolled his eyes. Was Mycroft truly dense enough to try to explain to _him_ , the Quartermaster, what a rescue mission meant and what risks it held?

 

“You don’t need to tell me about it! Or should I maybe remind you that I am an agent with the rank of major, while you, brother, passionately hate any kind of legwork?”

 

“Major? I’ve never heard of any Quartermaster being referred to by rank.” – How could a seventeen-year-old teenager be a major!? MI6 surely couldn’t have sunk that low!

 

“That’s because Old Boothroyd’s real name was Major. We couldn’t very well refer to him as ‘Major Major’, could we? That would have been too Catch-22. But I can assure you I’m more than capable of managing a field assignment even if I haven’t had many chances to prove it. I have the same training as everyone else in the Secret Intelligence Service, except for the Double-Os of course.” – Well, officially, at least. Mycroft really didn’t need to know he had put his hacking abilities to good use in that area. To his defense: his promotion to Quartermaster had happened very suddenly and unexpectedly. M had only said: ‘Take care of the paperwork as you see fit. I don’t want to know about it at all, I have other things to focus on right now.’ So he had done as he had been instructed. There was nothing wrong with taking desperate measures in desperate times. Nothing at all. Yeah, right. – “It’s not a game and I’m very well aware of that. I have also prepared and directed ample operations and my marksmanship is the best in the whole MI6. And _that’s_ including Double-Os!” – At least that was really true. He was a legend when it came to shooting targets. On the training field. – “I’m not just a little kid playing with water pistol guarding a sand castle!”

 

“You don’t speak Serbian.” – Pointed out Mycroft, as a last resort, with not much hope in his voice, knowing very well he was fighting an already lost battle. The boy was simply too good.

 

“Neither do you. We can both learn it on the way there.”

 

Mycroft sighed but accepted the inevitable. Besides, they really didn’t have time to argue and Benedict _was_ more than capable of the task. He knew that of course. As soon as he had learnt about the boy’s position in Britain’s Secret Intelligence Service, he had done his research and knew now what it really meant to be Quartermaster. There was nobody available more fitting to do what they had ahead of them. But it didn’t mean he had to like it: now he would have to worry about both his little brothers!

 

“It’s settled then?” – He wanted to make sure the courageous youngster knew exactly what he was getting himself into.

 

“I have already requested three days off from work. And two days before that I’m free anyway; so, I have five days to spare now. Let’s make sure it’s enough.”

 

“It will be enough. In five days, the three of us will be home; safe and sound.” – Promised Mycroft.

 

“Amen.”

 

They agreed to meet at the airport the next morning. Q went home to pack a few things and prepare the assignment while Mycroft made a few calls to other high-ranking persons to explain his upcoming absence.

 

**Q – Q – Q – Q – Q – Q – Q – Q – Q – Q – Q – Q – Q – Q**

 

_Two-year-old Benedict was very excited. His parents had promised to take him to Walt Disney World, Orlando, Florida, for his birthday! He had never even left England before and now he was traveling to the US! On an airplane none the less! It was just so very cool! They were also going to visit the Universal Studios and travel to the Kennedy Space Center and he’d see cars drive on the wrong side of the road! He couldn’t wait to be there._

_He had been afraid his parents would decide not to risk the journey to the United States due to the recent occurrences on September 11 that very year (just a bit over a month ago…), but fortunately, admittedly after much debate over the matter, they hadn’t changed their plans in the end and now here they were: sitting in the aircraft, waiting for takeoff._

_Benedict, of course, was very-very smart for his age and knew exactly what a terror attack meant, especially since his father was a journalist and had hardly slept for days afterwards, writing article after article about the sad happenings across the ocean. Benedict felt horribly guilty about being so happy right now after such a tragedy that had shaken the entire mankind but he couldn’t help it: it_ was _his birthday after all and he_ was _traveling to the probably most exciting place in the whole world!_

_Although he wished his brothers could have been persuaded to come with them. He knew very well that, contrary to popular belief, they loved their little brother very much, but of course they certainly had a very unique way showing it. Or rather not showing it at all most of the time. Still, he felt they were the only people on Earth who really understood him and their absence would certainly take away some of the fun he could be having during the trip._

_He knew his parents didn’t have a clue about his mind’s workings and would rather not know anything about it at all… They had wished for a normal baby after two geniuses and were, in Benedict’s opinion, bitterly disappointed he didn’t turn out that way. Not that they had said it like that out loud but the boy, clever as he was, was able to read between the lines._

_Anyway, as it was, Mycroft had way more important things to do than ‘parade around with cartoon figures in a park designed for small kids’ and Sherlock… well, Sherlock was Sherlock and he had just simply said he wasn’t interested in such ‘ridiculously childish things’. They had both remembered his birthday five days ago though and he had gotten two very-very interesting books from them to read: Mycroft had bought him The Sorrows of Young Werther and other collected works by Johann Wolfgang von Goethe (in original German of course) while Sherlock had presented him with De Profundis and other works of Oscar Wilde. He had already read the latter after having researched the history behind it and was going to continue with Goethe as soon as they’d be back. His parents had only been shaking their heads in confusion seeing his presents, claiming ‘what is a two-year-old supposed to do with books, boys? And a German one at that…’ – Benedict had tried to explain to them various times before that he had been reading classic literature in many languages for months already but they didn’t believe him. It was a bit vexing but luckily he had his brothers to turn to. Funnily enough_ they _had never had a problem believing anything about him. Quite the contrary: they seemed to expect nothing less of him. Sherlock had once said_ he _would have been deeply disappointed and also offended if any brother of him had turned out to be an idiot. (‘Idiot’ meaning in Sherlock’s interpretation the normal, everyday people like – his brother’s words not Benedict’s! – their parents.)_

_The plane was just taking off now and Benedict, waking from his daydreams, clutched his sock bunny in excitement, looking out the window, trying to take in everything that was happening. He smiled at Bibby Bunny and caressed his long blue ears. His mom had made similar sock toys for all of her boys just after they had been born: Mycroft had a teddy named Tudor, Sherlock a dog he called Redbeard and Benedict this little bunny. The two older brothers claimed of course to be too old to care about these anymore, though Benedict knew for a fact they both held their first toys in high esteem, tucked away safely in their respective rooms at Holmes Manor. Benedict, naturally, took his own furry friend everywhere he went with him. And now the rabbit was traveling as a family member to the US! He had even made him a passport and visa because he knew very well you couldn’t travel without proper paperwork – especially these days. He didn’t want the officer at the border to send back his friend all alone._

_Sherlock had teased him about it, saying that playing with toys was for babies… Well, didn’t mommy and daddy insist he_ was _a baby? Anyway, Mycroft had told him once that Sherlock had played pirate with Redbeard and told everyone who would listen that he had a real dog. That hadn’t been true of course: mommy and daddy would never in a million years have allowed a living pet into their household. They thought pets were far more trouble than they were worth. Benedict was a bit sad about it because he had always wished for a cat but knew he couldn’t do anything about it. But Sherlock had pretended to have a real dog and he had already been 8-9 years old at that time; Mycroft had said so! Much older than Benedict was now, so Sherlock shouldn’t make fun of him for playing with toys. It was different when you were only a hand old but when you already needed two hands to show your age, you were really old. Well, that’s how Benedict saw it, anyway. He had decided to put his bunny up onto the shelf as soon as he’d reach six. But that was still far-far away. Two lifetimes. So he knew for certain it was all right to play with Bibby now._

_“Isn’t it marvelous, Bibby? Just a few hours and we’ll be in a complete different world!” – He asked his contently smiling bunny in excitement, never knowing to what extent this was going to become true…_

_“Do you enjoy the journey, son?” – Asked his dad happily, tickling the little boy’s nose teasingly. Benedict, as always, sneezed at that, causing great amusement to his father._

_“Oh, yes, daddy! Just look at those beautiful clouds! Incredible! These reddish colors and shapes are absolutely amazing!”_

_“Benedict, two-year-olds don’t use words like ‘marvelous’, ‘incredible’ or ‘amazing’. – Chided him his mother gently, running her hand through his messy dark locks to show him she wasn’t really angry. – “Didn’t you mean ‘bestest’, or something like that?”_

_“Of course, mommy. Sorry.”_

_His mom just sighed in resignation. His dad patted his head:_

_“You don’t have to be sorry, son, it’s all right. I know your brothers teach you things like that just to spite us.”_

_Benedict felt a bit betrayed by that statement, but decided against explaining to his parents that he didn’t need his brothers to teach him such terms since he read them all the time in his books… Weren’t these normal English words? Well, they wouldn’t understand anyway because in their opinion ‘babies can’t read!’. So he said instead:_

_“But it is in fact the_ best _, really. I don’t know about ‘bestest’ though, I think it might not be entirely correct grammatically…”_

_“Gramma---!? Oh, it’s all right, son, just enjoy yourself.”_

_“Okay!”_

_They had been flying for around an hour when Benedict felt a great jerk that nearly made him fall out of his seat. People looked around in fright while the warning sign for fastening seatbelts instantly became visible, flashing so that everyone would see it and know to obey. His dad reached over to strap him in securely while his mom took his hand to reassure him._

_“It’s all right, sunshine; it’s just a small turbulence. Nothing to worry about, Benny.”_

_He hated being called that but it was perhaps not the right time to mention it. Now they had more pressing matters._

_“A_ small _turbulence?” – He asked in disbelief, seeing people panic around them. – “Then why is everyone so afraid?”_

_“They’re not. Just close your eyes if you feel a bit sick. It’s fine.” – Hurried to explain to him his dad as well._

_He did as he had been told but soon discovered it didn’t help much. If anything, it made him feel even more nauseous. Before the journey, he had read up everything he could find on airplanes using the internet on Mycroft’s laptop. His older brother was usually willing to let the ‘baby of the family’ use his things without letting anyone know so that he could do research without further worrying his parents with his ‘unnatural interests’. Like the laws of physics behind flying. That curiosity and the information he had gathered thanks to it made him certain in that moment that everything was most assuredly_ not _all right. Not at all. He didn’t know if his parents were that unaware or were simply trying to make him feel better by denying the truth, but he suspected the latter. They always insisted on treating him like a little baby he should be according to his biological age. A pity that at this precise moment, his far more mature brain was screaming at him to do something. But what?_

_He opened his eyes and found total chaos around him. People were trying to fasten oxygen masks on their faces. Some were crying, others screaming at the top of their lungs. Benedict couldn’t see how any of the two activities could be of any help in a situation like that. He looked out of the window and saw---_

_“Fire!” – He exclaimed, pointing at the right wing they could clearly see from their seats. “Mommy, look!”_

_“It’s okay, baby, just stay calm… here, your mask…” – His mother had tears running down her face and even his father was deadly pale. That scared the little boy more than anything else that was happening. His parents were never afraid. Never!_

_He also didn’t think it was oxygen mask they needed right now. He quickly calculated their possibilities and diagnosed they were going to go down. There was just no chance this could end any other way. That knowledge nearly made him panic but then thought about what he had read about plane crashes. There had been a lot of research material these last weeks, given the sad actuality of the topic._

_“Mommy, we need to find protection for when we’ll crash!”_

_“What? Benny, stay where you are, what are you doing!?” – His mother tried to grab his arm but he was too quick for her. His father also made a grab for him but Benedict had such small and skinny arms; he could get out of any bind in just mere seconds._

_The little boy hurriedly crawled in under his seat and hugged the life vest he found there to his chest, along with Bibby Bunny of course. Luckily, he was small enough to be entirely covered. He kept his finger on the button of the vest but didn’t press it just yet. He knew they were going to end up in the ocean but first they had to survive the crash itself._

_He didn’t have to wait long for that – it seemed he had taken his refuge just in time. Soon there was a very big ‘crack’ to hear and the small boy felt like he had been hit by an enormous truck. He had of course never actually been hit by a truck but that was exactly how he had always imagined it to be._

_How was still groggy when he began to feel ice-cold water seeping into his clothes. They were indeed in the ocean then. He very carefully climbed out from under the seat and pressed the life vest to blow it up. It was too big for him to wear like it had been designed to be worn so he bound it with a knot to his wrists, silently thanking Sherlock for teaching him ‘pirate things’. The water level was rapidly growing and he knew he only had minutes to get out of the plane into open waters before the whole cabin would be filled._

_He looked around in search for his parents and he saw something he would most likely never be able to forget ever: everyone around him seemed to be dying in terrible pain! His mommy was screaming and pleading with his daddy to help her. His daddy couldn’t help though: his forehead was bleeding horrifyingly and he had great difficulty breathing! He was also crying and looking at Benedict with teary, glassy eyes._

_“Son, help us! We need to get out! Help! You’re the only one who is able to move now. You need to help us!”_

_“I’ll try, daddy…” – And he did but he couldn’t move either of them. His daddy was getting weaker and weaker, so he tried with his mommy. She screamed in pain as soon as he grabbed her arm to try to pull her up._

_The water was still flowing into the plane and they were slowly but steadily sinking._

_“We need to go, please! Mommy, daddy! We need to leave” – But they didn’t listen, just cried and pleaded with him to help them. To do something. Anything. But what could he do?_

_In the end, he got very-very scared._

_The little boy wanted to scream and rage. He wanted to cry. Most importantly: he wanted his brothers there and his parents healthy and well, and this whole thing to just have been nothing more than a cruel nightmare! He felt like running. Fleeing. So that’s what he did. He ran to the nearest emergency exit careful not to damage the life vest, ignoring a moaning old man in one of the seats who seemed to have a piece of iron sticking out of his stomach (he had to look away very quickly for he felt like he would vomit), and – mentally saying thanks for the demonstration they’d had at the beginning of their flight – he could open the door at second try. It was a bit funny that a two-year-old ‘baby’ was able to do it. He would have expected it to be more difficult. Then again: he wasn’t an ordinary two years old boy, was he?_

_Under them there was nothing but infinite water. The little boy had no clue what to do with only one life vest as support and not an adult to help him. How was he supposed to survive? Maybe he wasn’t…_

_Just at that moment the plane sank deeper as it got filled with more water and the motion caused to thin and very light boy to lose his hold on the railing and fall. He lost consciousness at the same time he hit the freezing water._

_* * * * * * * * * * * *_

_The next time he woke, he was lying in a bed in a totally white room. Everything was frightening and he was alone. He wanted to call for someone but he couldn’t. It felt as if there was something in his mouth preventing him from talking. Everything hurt and he couldn’t move._

_He did what everyone would have done in a situation like that: he panicked. Soon, he could hear a high-pitched shrilling sound that hurt his ears and he passed out again._

_* * * * * * * * * * * *_

_When he woke anew, he could instantly see Sherlock sitting next to him with red eyes, staring numbly into nothingness, unaware of his little brother being aware. He looked horrible, as if he hadn’t slept for days but had been crying the whole time instead. Benedict could also hear Mycroft’s voice from outside; demanding and angry. He was very glad he wasn’t the one being talked to like that. Mycroft could be scary when he wanted to be, everyone knew that._

_“We won’t leave the hospital, Doctor Perry, so I suggest you quit trying to make us go home.”_

_“Mister Holmes, please, try to understand: hospital regulations---“_

_“I don’t care shit about your regulations! Our little brother woke yesterday and we weren’t here! He panicked and passed out again! That is unacceptable! Where were you, anyway? He wakes from a coma and nobody realizes!?”_

_Coma…?_

_“Nobody thought he’d ever wake… We didn’t…”_

_“And that’s supposed to be your excuse as a professional? That you DIDN’T THINK? It’s quite obvious, doctor, that you DON’T think at all and that says a lot about your hospital. Leave us alone! I have already arranged for him to be taken home first thing tomorrow. Until then: don’t even think about speaking to us again unless we speak to you first. And yes: that was the last warning! The next time you bother us, it’s going to be quite painful for you.”_

_The door opened, and Mycroft stepped in, breathing heavily and not looking any better than Sherlock. He was the first to realize Benedict watching them._

_“Oh my God! Benedict! Baby brother!” – He exclaimed and leaned down to the little boy’s level to look him into the eyes._

_Sherlock gave a yelp and grabbed the small and frail boy’s hand._

_“Benedict? Can you hear us?” – He asked, looking half-afraid of the answer which didn’t seem logical to the boy. If he couldn’t hear them, how would he be supposed to answer?_

_Benedict tried to say something. Anything. But he couldn’t find the strength. Even though that something, that had been there the day before, had by now disappeared from his mouth. Thankfully, because that had been horrible. Still, he couldn’t speak so he tried to nod. He managed it at third attempt, but it made his head spin horribly so he decided he wouldn’t do that again either._

_“Oh!!! Oh!!” – Was all Sherlock could say to that._

_Mycroft caressed his hair and it felt nice. His brothers were here with him! But where were his parents? If he was sick, shouldn’t they be here as well?_

_Then it all came back to him suddenly. The crash! People bleeding and dying… mommy and daddy bleeding and dying and crying and asking him for help which he hadn’t given to them! Tears sprang into his eyes and he started to sob violently._

_“Benedict, it’s okay!” – Said Mycroft. – “Please, you’re going to make yourself sick. Hey, we’re here, you’re going to be all right. Please, listen to me…”_

_But Benedict couldn’t. Their parents were dead! They had been in a plane crash and their parents had died! And it was all his fault: it was his birthday they had wanted to celebrate. The travel had been his birthday present… His brothers were never going to forgive him! Never ever! How could they after what he had done?_ He had killed their mommy and daddy!

 

_He would never tell them._

 

**Q – Q – Q – Q – Q – Q – Q – Q – Q – Q – Q – Q**

Q woke with a silent scream and breathing very hard, feeling sick. He hadn’t had this particular nightmare for a while. Well, it was more than a nightmare: it was a memory. The worst he had.

 

He quickly turned on the lights in his bedroom and – being glad he had left his kittens with Eve for the days he wouldn’t be here – walked into the bathroom to wash his face with cold water.

 

Just like he had expected it upon looking around in the plane and finding that horrible-horrible scene: he could still vividly remember every detail about the crash itself and the months following it.

 

He had woken up in the hospital in pain and very confused. Later he had learnt that he had been the sole survivor of the crash. Actually, there had been three others who could be rescued from the wreckages still alive but all of them had died within the week afterwards of their injuries. Nobody understood how a small, seemingly undernourished, weak little boy of two years of age could manage to survive it without any lasting reminder. (Unless you counted having become an orphan and gaining a fear he hadn’t been able to overcome for fifteen years…)

 

Not that the doctors had originally given him any credit, mind you: when he had been pulled out of the water by the rescue teams, he had been absolutely frozen and barely alive at all. The doctors had to use CPR to reanimate him two times in the hospital because he had stopped breathing and according to them the second time it took ‘way too long’ for someone so small not to become brain damaged.

 

Then he spent the next several weeks in a coma from which he hadn’t been expected to wake anymore. The doctors had tried to persuade his brothers to look for a long-term solution for him – meaning putting him into an institute – but they had outright refused to even consider this possibility. In the end, arrangements had been made for him to be taken home to Holmes Manor. Mycroft had sorrowfully decided to leave his work and spend his life looking after his brother instead. Sherlock had offered to help and had not accepted ‘no’ as an answer, saying: ‘He’s my brother as well, you great moron, don’t you dare play the martyr here!’

 

So, Mycroft and Sherlock had moved back into Holmes Manor and had been just about to take their sick little brother home when he had woken up and had seemed – to the doctors’ utter disbelief – absolutely fine physically.

 

But he hadn’t been talking for a very long time. Q was able to explain it to himself now, contrary to back then: he knew the guilt he had felt had made him unable to utter a word. He had been selfish and afraid his brothers would hate him if they knew he had left their pleading parents behind to save himself, so he had cowardly decided not to tell them. But he hadn’t been able to lie either so he had become mute. Well, he would have thought they would hate him anyway just for surviving since he knew it all had happened because of him in the first place…

 

That opinion hadn’t changed: he still felt responsible. That was the reason that until very recently he had absolutely refused to celebrate his birthday. His brothers weren’t the types for parties so it hadn’t been a problem ever. Most of the time they had just patted him on the shoulder and congratulated him on having become a year older again. It was a sad time of the year for their family after all. Later, Anthea would always get him a slice of cake and a small present which he had appreciated very much but hadn’t found necessary. Both his and Mycroft’s birthdays suffered the anniversary of their parents’ death anyway and nothing could ever change that.

 

He had never been able to forget Bibby Bunny either: as ashamed as he had felt that he hadn’t only missed his parents but his stuffed animal as well, he hadn’t been able to help it: the rabbit had been his best friend since his birth after all. (And also the only one for a very long time to come.) He couldn’t even begin to tell how ridiculously happy he was about the fact that Paddington Bear hadn’t suffered the same fate when his flat had been blown up.

 

He was well aware of the fact that the accident and everything he had gone through made him the most likely candidate for becoming a psychopath out of the three brothers and most probably out of everyone in MI6. There was a reason he avoided having to talk to psychologists like a plague and was willing to go as far as falsifying reports of any obligatory psych evals. Or that he was still just as unable to really talk to his brothers as he had been before… He still hadn’t told them that he could remember… that he had seen their parents dying…

 

He sat down onto the edge of the bathtub with a heavy sigh.

 

He really didn’t wish to fly again. He had made himself a promise never to go near an airplane ever again. He was a menace, a bad omen; he brought misfortune! But you could say it was typical that things just wouldn’t go the way he wanted them to. Now he really didn’t have any other choice but to try to get over his fear. He sure as hell wouldn’t let Sherlock down just because he was a whiny baby (at least according to James Bond) and too afraid to help him!

 

He would manage it. Somehow… Deciding there was no way he would sleep any more that night, he resigned himself to dedicate the time to studying some Serbian instead.


	2. II.	What Was I Thinking?

When Q arrived at the airport the next day by 004’s car, Mycroft was already there. He was watching in astonishment as the boy got out of the vehicle and – rather shakily – presented an enormous backpack that seemed to be far too big for him to carry.

 

Q explained without his brother even having to voice the question:

 

“Hamilton will fly back home today from Germany and arrive here in the afternoon. I told him he’d find his car in the parking lot waiting for him. It’s coded to his palm print – no trouble with who has the keys and such things. Absolutely convenient for our current situation, don’t you think?”

 

Mycroft shrugged, not having an idea who ‘Hamilton’ was and not particularly interested either but a bit surprised to see his baby brother drive. He had heard that his little brother had arrived to the Christmas party by car, but hadn’t seen it. And it was a completely different thing to witness such a phenomenon. How had he missed the boy grow up? When had that happened?

 

And what was that enormous bag for…?

 

“Are you planning on staying longer than a few days in Serbia, little brother?” – He asked. – “You seem to have brought your whole closet for the trip.”

 

“Don’t be daft, Myc. These are essentials for the mission! I’ll show you everything in the… ahm… you know…” – He instantly became deadly pale and trembled even worse than before, not even able to say the dreaded word.

 

“Hey, you all right?”

 

The boy nodded, not trusting himself to speak. Mycroft was increasingly worried.

 

“Are you still sure you want to come?”

 

“Of course I am. Come on!” – And with that he started towards the already prepared and waiting airplane.

 

Contrary to his original intentions, Q eventually had to stop in front of the passenger boarding steps to take a few deep breaths for fear he would really pass out even before getting on the plane. Mycroft just put an arm around his shoulders, wisely remaining completely silent and never rushing him; understanding the boy’s wish to try and overcome his fear himself. He of course knew exactly why the teenager was afraid of flying and that knowledge made him unspeakably proud of the boy for even trying. Everyone who knew the story behind the fear would understand it completely if the teenager never ever even as much as attempted a travel, let alone get as far as he had already done.

 

In the end, they climbed the steps – only having to stop once more halfway up for a couple of seconds –, and took their respective seats inside the cursed vehicle. The last – and only – time he had been in a plane they had been sitting on the right-hand side around the middle, so Q now had determinedly walked into the far back of the small space and had chosen a seat on the left. The boy had cold sweat running down his forehead and looked only seconds from fainting. He was shaking so hard that his brother was afraid he was already having a full-blown panic attack.

 

He tried to get the young boy to drink some water but he just shook his head.

 

“I’m pathetic.” – Moaned Q dejectedly.

 

“No, you’re not. You’re the bravest person I’ve ever known.” – Mycroft said with complete honesty. – “You’re here. None of us had ever thought it possible.”

 

“I’m beginning to doubt it was a wise idea.” – Admitted the boy. – “I’m just not able…”

 

“Are you feeling sick? Do you need a paper bag?”

 

Q shook his head again, not even speaking anymore, as the pilot had just started the engines. Mycroft hugged him.

 

“If you want to get out… this is the last chance. It would be entirely all right.”

 

Another headshake, and soon they were taxiing towards their designated runway.

 

“Did you take a pill or something?”

 

The boy had his eyes shut tight and tears running down his cheeks. The plane had started its accelerating run and Q gripped the elbow rest so hard, his knuckles turned white. He seemed to have trouble breathing.

 

“Hey, it’s okay. I’m here. It’s fine. You’re fine. I promise.”

 

They abruptly took off just as the youngest Holmes passed out, his last conscious thought being: ‘Just what the hell was I thinking?’

 

**Q – Q – Q – Q – Q – Q – Q – Q – Q – Q – Q – Q – Q**

 

He woke up ten minutes later to a very worried Mycroft holding him in his lap and washing his face with a wet napkin.

 

“Wha… oh…. What happened?”

 

“Benedict? Thank God! How are you feeling?”

 

“I think I’ve been better.” – He replied and experimentally sat up. When he didn’t fall right back he took it as a good sign and completely returned to his seat, still feeling totally miserable. – “What happened?” – He repeated.

 

“You fainted. I think you forgot to breathe.”

 

“I didn’t forget; I wasn’t able to.” – This time he accepted a cup of water from his brother, thankfully took a small sip, then looked around. – “Are we really in the air?”

 

“Flying up high in the sky, just like in fairy tales, yes.”

 

“Wow. I did it.”

 

“Yes, you did. I’m so very proud. Sherlock will be too.”

 

Q drank more water cautiously but fortunately it didn’t feel like it wanted to come back out again. He said no to any food though, just to be sure. After a while he started to feel stronger, so he got up and dropped his bag onto his seat.

 

“Woa, stop there, Benedict! You just woke up and you’re still very weak. You don’t have to stand up and prove anything. Just sit back down!”

 

“I want to show you the things I’ve brought, Myc. Here…” – He unzipped the bag. – “Standard radio to be able to talk to each other. Very tiny and fully concealable. Also waterproof. Well, Sherlock’s was supposed to be that too… A laptop. Cell phones with GPS in them…” – He continued listing gadgets and telling Mycroft about their purposes. Thinking about work helped take off his mind of other things, just like it usually did. – “And these are our fake IDs. You’re going to be a high-ranking boss nobody had seen but had been giving orders through various agents the whole time. We’ll just have to pray the real big boss himself doesn’t decide to make an appearance at the same time we do, because there’s really a boss like that; I know it from Sherlock. I thought the role would fit you. They’re going to let you into their hidden base like that and hopefully also to where Sherlock is held.

 

“Ingenious.”

 

“Thank you. And I’m going to be your cowering assistant whom you keep around to do your every bidding. Nobody to pay any attention to, nobody to expect any kind of attack from.”

 

“Are you sure---“

 

“Yes, I am. And this is a Serbian language book with a CD for correct pronunciation. You should begin studying it; it took me over two hours last night. It’s not a particularly difficult language per se but you’ll have to speak very good to make it believable. Don’t worry about the accent thought, your alias is Russian.”

 

“Why Russian?”

 

“I thought it was believable enough and would explain any eventual difficulties with the language. It’s an international web; they don’t expect everyone to be of the same nationality. Also, Sherlock thought the real boss might be Russian.”

 

“And you have really learnt it already?” – Mycroft asked in awe, examining the students’ book of Serbian with a doubtful expression.

 

“наравно”

 

“Bless you.”

 

So Mycroft began studying the language while Q absentmindedly stared out of the window (it was a small plane, he hadn’t been able to go so far into the back that he couldn’t see out), determined not to find the clouds beautiful at all.

 

After a while Mycroft cleared his throat and asked.

 

“So, are you going to tell me her name?”

 

Q paled (even more) and tried to look like he really didn’t understand the question.

 

“I have no idea what you’re talking about Myc. I have a lot of ‘hers’ around me all the time.”

 

“I’m sure you do understand… And I should also very much hope you don’t have ‘a lot of’ girls around in that sense!” – Smirked the oldest Holmes. – “You really believed I wouldn’t notice how ridiculously in love you are, brother dear?”

 

“Well, and did you think I wouldn’t notice that you’re as well?”

 

Mycroft looked like he wanted to deny it but then he just shrugged instead.

 

“Touché…”

 

“So, if you’ll tell me about her, I’ll tell you about her too.”

 

“You begin.”

 

“Fine: her name’s Annabel, she’s 18 and she’ll graduate this year from high school. After that she wants to go to Oxford to study psychology and then later possible sociology. She hates Chemistry and loves Math. She is in love with Pixel and Confetti and finds Paddington Bear ‘absolutely cute’. She has an older sister and they both live with their parents in a small town not very far away from us. She spent a week in my apartment to get to know London better and I took her to Oxford one day.”

 

“She spent A WEEK with you? Aren’t the two of you a bit too young for that?”

 

Q totally ignored him and went on with the list.

 

“She’s beautiful and funny and as rubbish in the kitchen as I am. It’s actually hilarious. I don’t know who’s going to feed the kids though…”

 

“KIDS? Benedict, what kids?”

 

The younger brother ignored him again.

 

“And she likes good food and cakes and anything sweet… I guess we’re very different in that area but luckily she doesn’t mind it very much if I just drink tea while she’s having a three-course dinner.”

 

“Benedict, I’ll ask the last time: what kids are you talking about?”

 

“It’s a miracle she can maintain her perfect figure. Well, there are fortunate people I guess. And she likes books and theater and music… And she isn’t very interested in foreign languages all that much. And---“

 

“WHAT KIDS, BENEDICT!?”

 

“Hey, hey, you don’t have to shout, I can hear you just right, Myc! We’re unfortunately in a very confined place, so for God’s sake; don’t try to make me deaf! And don’t worry, I’m just joking, of course there aren’t going to be any kids---“

 

“Good.”

 

“– for now.”

 

“What!?”

 

“Now it’s your turn! I told you everything there is to know; now you!”

 

“Benedict, maybe it’s time to have the talk with you---“

 

“Don’t even think about it, I’m warning you! Now I want to hear about _your_ love interest.”

 

Mycroft sighed defeated.

 

“All right, but don’t think we’re done talking about this!” – He warned for good measure. – “Well, her name is Alicia and is a member of the Parliament. She used to be married but her husband died not very long ago. She has helped me and Sherlock a lot and she’s extremely loyal and professional. She’s strong and independent. Her favorite perfume is Claire-de-la-Lune so that’s what I’m going to give her for her next birthday.”

 

“Wow. I mean: you actually know when her birthday is? And you care? Incredible.”

 

“She has an adult daughter who has her own family with two small children. Alicia is… well… somewhat… older than me. Don’t you dare laugh!”

 

“I wouldn’t. Age doesn’t matter; you should know I wouldn’t complain about it. Annabel is older than me as well.”

 

“Not by 10 years though and she isn’t – hopefully – a grandmother.”

 

“I can’t find anything wrong with it. Go on.”

 

Mycroft felt ridiculously relieved about the easy acceptance of his little brother.

 

“She was born in Edinburgh, Scotland, but she moved with her family to London when she was only a child. She has been living there ever since. Her daughter lives in Surrey. And she was the one to ask me out first… Well, actually, I asked her out but not before she literally ordered me to do so.”

 

“You can be _ordered_ to do something? Wow. You must like her a lot. Usually, you’d kill anyone who dared try it. Well, but it figures. I don’t think you’ll be surprised to hear that it wasn’t me initiating the first conversation with Annabel either.”

 

“You know, little brother, I think we’re more similar than we would have originally thought.”

 

“Funny how I always used to think I resembled Sherlock more.”

 

“You have something of both of us but you have also your own personality. Mother and Father would be proud.”

 

“They would be proud of us all, especially since we wouldn’t tell them anything they couldn’t be proud of.”

 

“Very true. Let’s face it: we’re sneaky bastards.”

 

“That we are. And that’s exactly what we need right now.”


	3. III. Let It Roll

They arrived in Serbia very soon. Mycroft was still not fully adept with the language because they had spent a great part of their travel scheming and talking instead of studying. Q had claimed he had things to prepare as well, so they decided to look for a cheap hotel room they could use to get ready.

 

After two hours of hard work, Mycroft had just finished listening to the CD and repeating all the phrases the fourth time. He hoped his knowledge would be enough to get by.

 

That was precisely the moment Q stepped out of the bathroom where he had spent a ridiculously long time. Mycroft had thought a few times about asking him if he was all right but had always decided against it in the end, thinking that perhaps he didn’t want to know at all the answer. Now he just gaped at the boy who had---

 

“Blond hair!? What the hell!?”

 

“I dyed it.”

 

“Obviously! The question is: why? Does Annabel prefer blonds or what?”

 

“Don’t be stupid, Myc! It’s just for this mission; it will come off after two or three washes. I just thought I resembled Sherlock too much not to arise suspicion when we go in. Now, with blond hair it’s a completely different matter.”

 

Mycroft had to admit there was some truth to that statement. The boy certainly didn’t remotely look like any of them right now. Funny how much hair color counted… But was it just the hair…?

 

“Do you have a _stubble_ , Benedict?”

 

“It’s Boris right now and yes. Although it’s only make-up. I don’t get stubble at all! Do you think there’s something wrong with me? Shouldn’t I have to shave at 17?”

 

Mycroft pinched the bridge of his nose and shut his eyes tiredly, muttering ‘Dear God, please, help me!’ under his breath three times in a row, as if expecting it to miraculously solve all his problems he had because of bothersome little brothers. Of course it didn’t, so when he opened his eyes again, their youngest member of family still looked just as ridiculous as before.

 

The senior Holmes just didn’t get it… Everyone he knew had such normal families… Even high-ranking members of the Parliament. None of them was cursed with a middle brother who insisted on chasing after criminals as a hobby and got captured abroad while playing Robin Hood. No one else had a youngest brother who built weapons and explosives for fun, tuned cars more heavily than the ones in the Fast and Furious saga and played dress up on a rescue mission. What had he done to deserve all these?

 

Q just shrugged and threw the towel he’d had on his shoulders onto the bed. Immediately Mycroft noticed…

 

“Do you have a TATTOO!?” – He shrieked, indicating at the boy’s right upper arm where a perfectly shaped eagle could be seen.

 

Q didn’t even turn around, from where he was rummaging around in his bag as if looking for something, as he answered with a tone that indicated the matter should be obvious to everyone with at least half a brain.

 

“Yes. Criminals have tattoos. Don’t worry; it’s also washable.”

 

“I certainly hope so, for your own sake, young man!”

 

Now Q turned towards his older brother in the blink of an eye.

 

“I am legally an adult. I could get a real tattoo if I wanted to, Myc.” – He reminded him.

 

Mycroft opened and closed his mouth a few times in a perfect imitation of a goldfish. Finding no right words for what he had originally wanted to say, he opted for pointing out instead:

 

“You’re not very waterproof right now. If we were caught in a rain, you’d completely disappear, _Boris_.”

 

Q continued searching in his bag.

 

“Yes. But we won’t. I checked the weather forecast. No rain today. We’re not in England anymore, you know.”

 

“And certainly not in Kansas…”

 

Q pulled something from the bag. – “YES! I knew I packed it.”

 

Mycroft tried to see over the boy’s shoulders what it was, feeling a certain kind of dread at the thought of what else the crazy youngster could come up with.

 

“Should I dare ask…?”

 

“Hair spray! It’s more authentic if I slick back my hair.” – He announced proudly, standing in front of the mirror in the bathroom, working on his hairstyle. – “I saw teenagers do it in high school.”

 

“You never went to high school.” – Reminded him Mycroft tiredly but his statement was ignored again.

 

“Don’t you want to get ready too, _Alexei_? We shouldn’t sit here for hours like we don’t have anything better to do.”

 

The teenager tried to look strict but with his slicked back blond hair, tattoo and stubble he looked so unlike himself, Mycroft couldn’t decide whether to laugh or cry. In the end, he just nodded and went into the bathroom to dress. He could hear his brother shouting to him from the other side of the door:

 

“Do you think I’ll have time to buy a fridge magnet while we’re here? For memory of my first successful plane travel…”

 

God save them all…

 

**Q – Q – Q – Q – Q – Q – Q – Q – Q – Q – Q – Q – Q – Q**

In the end, the boy had gone as far as to wear ragged sneakers, tattered skinny jeans that even had some holes, a white T-shirt with frightening satanic symbols on it and a loose black leather jacket. He had also produced out of seemingly nowhere a necklace with a huge silver cross and put three fake earrings into his left ear. (“Oh, for God’s sake, do stop freaking out, Myc, they _are_ just clip on ones!”)

 

Mycroft had long given up trying to find words for this phenomenon that used to be his subtle, occasionally even shy little bother once in a previous lifetime. He had been such a cute little child… The oldest brother felt a pang of nostalgy looking at the boy now and imagining the smiling, bright-eyed little baby in his place. Those times were long gone by now.

 

It hurt a bit, so he decided to try and focus on their mission instead of dwelling on the past. He himself had an elegant suit with sunglasses and – as he checked in the mirror – he had to admit: both of them looked their respective parts perfectly. So: Showtime!

 

**Q – Q – Q – Q – Q – Q – Q – Q – Q – Q – Q – Q – Q – Q**

 

They were standing in front of the building that most probably held Sherlock and a bunch of criminals who wouldn’t hesitate to kill all of them, should they be found out. They only had one shot at it.

 

“Shall we?” – He asked the younger one.

 

“Let’s roll.” – Q answered, trying not to let it show how frightened he really was.

 

They entered the building with forced determined strides; Mycroft leading with Q following behind him like it was expected of a good servant, carrying his bag. Mycroft only had an expensive walking stick with a bird’s head on the top.

 

As soon as they were inside, they could hear voices of two people speaking in Serbian, an insisting thud-thud like a crop hitting bare skin and also… groans of pain… from a third person. They looked at each other and nodded. They continued just a tiny bit quicker.

 

As soon as they arrived into the main area of the building – a bare, dark room that only held a desk, a chair and Sherlock – their brother! – chained to the ropes hanging from the ceiling, they could see they had been right: this was the place they had been looking for.

 

There were also three men with his brother in the room: two stood by the barely conscious Sherlock with a whip held in the hand of the taller man and a bucket of water near the smaller, bulkier man on the floor, and the third was sitting at a huge office desk, silently watching the proceedings.

 

All four turned towards the newcomers. Sherlock’s eyes lit up at the sight of them while the man at the desk jumped up and angrily stormed to meet them.

 

“Just who the hell are you!?” – He asked in Serbian.

 

Mycroft nodded at Q as the young boy stepped forward and answered also in Serbian.

 

“Is that, in your opinion, the right way to greet Alexei Sokolov, The Falcon?” – The men looked at him as if he had spouted an extra head and he hoped to God it was because the name didn’t tell them anything – which was of course understandable – and not because he had messed up the first sentence he had ever spoken in that foreign language. – “The Boss.” – He pressed.

 

This finally had the desired effect: the Tall Man dropped the whip and stood up even taller. The Bulky Man nearly fell over the pail in his hustle to right his clothes and straighten up properly. The Leader, who had just seconds ago wanted to attack them, took half a step backwards and bowed elegantly.

 

“My Boss.” – He said, still facing the floor. – “It’s such an honor having you here with us. We have been waiting and hoping to see you in person one day. Please, excuse my earlier lack of manners. I didn’t know it was you.”

 

“I forgive you this once.” – Said Mycroft with scornful graciosity and looked around as if making sure the place met his expectations. – “So, is this the famous secret location I’ve been hearing so much about? Where you have orchestrated Spectre’s every move from? I could find it without problems in mere minutes.”

 

“Sir… My Boss… Nobody has ever come here before. I swear it is secret!”

 

“We’ll see.”

 

“My Boss… Would you like something? A tea, perhaps? And your young companion…?”

 

“My name’s Boris Erdeli. I’m the Boss’ most loyal helper. And a tea would be fine for both of us.” – Q said with all the authority he could muster, for they had figured the personal servant to the Great Boss would probably be full of himself when faced with ‘lower’ personnel. Such were the workings of criminal organizations. Everyone had their own place in their ranks. ‘Kiss up, kick down’ was their motto.

 

And thankfully they had been right: the Leader visibly clenched his teeth at the tone of the ‘pup’ but motioned to the Tall Man to go and prepare the requested tea for them.

 

“I would like a tour around.” – Ordered Mycroft. – “And some sandwiches. We have a long road behind us.”

 

“Of course, my boss.” – The Leader sent Bulky to get food and asked Mycroft to follow him to see other parts of their sanctuary.

 

Q was finally alone with Sherlock, if only for a few minutes. Making sure that really nobody was near to surprise them, he ran to his injured brother and whispered.

 

“Sher! Oh, God… you look terrible… How are you?”

 

“And yet I still look much better than you in that moment, little brother.” – Answered Sherlock with difficulty. Talking looked painful. Also, he had to lower his voice very much, seeing that his smooth baritone carried across the room even is whisper. It made him seem even weaker. It was a shocking sight.

 

“Oh, shut up and tell me what they did to you!”

 

“How can I tell you anything if I have to shut up, genius?”

 

“Do you really have to be difficult even now?”

 

“Yes. And how did you even get here so quickly? Surely not by train.”

 

“I apparated.”

 

“You what?”

 

“Figure it out, smart aleck. And tell me: did at least something of the equipment survive?”

 

“No, they all died a hero’s death.”

 

Q shook his head in exasperation.

 

“God, you’re officially an honorary Double-O agent from now on. Your modus operandi is certainly the same.”

 

“You mean my success rate?”

 

“I mean the destruction you cause.”

 

Before Sherlock could think of a comeback, they heard steps nearing. The Tall Man was approaching with their tea. Q backed off from Sherlock and transformed his face from caring and worried into a bored, self-assertive expression.

 

“Your tea, _sir_.” – The deliberately mocking undertone was hard to miss but Q ignored him.

 

“Why do you have him here?” – He asked in Serbian again, nodding towards Sherlock, careful not to show too much interest.

 

“He’s our hostage. We found him lurking around here a few days ago.”

 

“Didn’t your leader just say that nobody had ever managed to get in here before? Interesting…”

 

“Well, nobody other than that one here… And he ain’t about to tell anyone, is he? He’ll learn to mind his own business now. Alas, it will be too late for him by then but it will be a good example for others like him.” – The Tall Man grinned at his own idea of joke, showing all his rotten teeth.

 

Q felt nauseous.

 

“There must be a reason you haven’t killed him yet. You suspect he knows something, don’t you?”

 

“Hey, kid, who are you to ask these questions? You might be a servant to the boss but you are not THE Boss. Zip it and drink your tea!”

 

The teenager wondered if he should press the matter further but he was saved from having to react in any way when Mycroft and the Leader came back, accompanied by Bulky and a tray loaded with sandwiches.

 

“There are going to be certain changes here from now on.” – He could hear Mycroft say to the Leader. – “I want those two---“ – He motioned towards Tall and Bulky. – “— taught proper manners. They are too self-assured for their own good. I heard one of them insult my helper. I won’t tolerate this kind of behavior!”

 

“Yes, sir, of course, sir. Miloš! Go and clean the toilet! Now!” – And with that, Tall was gone, muttering insults under his breath that only Q could hear.

 

“Boss, they have not been entirely honest with us.” – Said Q with a much humbler tone to Mycroft, still in Serbian, playing his role perfectly. – “This one here---“ – He pointed at Sherlock accusingly. – “—managed to get in here just a few days ago. They’re questioning him because they think he might have connections outside who know about this place and probably about Spectre. And, so far he’s not talking.”

 

“WHAT!?” – Shouted Mycroft, turning to the cowering leader. – “Why didn’t you tell me about this? You should have called me right away!”

 

Q froze. They didn’t have a clue whether the Leader had called the Boss or not. Or even if they were able to call him or they had to wait for the Boss to make contact. Oh. This could backfire. Mycroft had immediately realized his mistake as well but, being a professional, his face didn’t betray his thoughts. Now they could only pray and hope for the best.

 

The Leader was visibly shaking.

 

“My Boss… I was sure… I am still sure… that I can take care of this little problem… this is nothing… Honest!”

 

All three Holmeses breathed a sigh of relief.

 

“This is unacceptable of course.” – Continued Mycroft without missing a beat. – “I want everyone but my loyal helper out of this room, right away. I, myself, am going to question this hostage.”

 

“Yes sir. Of course, sir. Slavko, come on!”

 

And the two men left, closing the door, leaving the brothers alone. All three just held their breaths for a few seconds, before Sherlock croaked.

 

“This was close. How can you be so stupid, Mycroft? They could have---“

 

“Be quiet, we don’t have much time. Benedict, help me get him down! And I hope you have a plan for getting us out of here?”

 

“Of course I have a plan. I have already alerted the MSA. They should be outside by now. I told them to be ready to attack as soon as I send the signal.”

 

“Then it would be the right time to do it now, little brother.”

 

“I agree.” – Said Sherlock hoarsely and moaned as he was lowered to the floor, finally, for the first time for days, free from any chains and ropes.

 

“Okay. Sent. It should be---” – At that precise moment the door was banged open and the three Serbian criminals stood there, aiming dangerous looking guns at them.

 

“I just finished trying to call the Boss. And I found out he’s been dead for months. Killed. By _that_ there.” – He said, indicating towards a surprised Sherlock with disgust. Typical the middle Holmes would make only ONE small mistake on his mission (not learning about his victim’s identity) and it would come back to bite them on the butt at the ‘best’ of times. – “And guess what? It wasn’t you!” – The three brothers looked at each other in alarm. – “The man I’ve managed to talk to doesn’t know anyone called Alexei Sokolov, The Falcon. Or Boris Erdeli, the _most loyal_ servant. And now we’re going to kill all three of you, whoever the hell you really are.”

 

“I don’t think so.” – Contradicted Q much calmer than he really felt.

 

“And just why not, puppy?” – Mocked Tall. – “Who’s going to save you?”

 

“They!” – Answered the teenager, pointing behind the three men where at least a dozen masked agents appeared with fully loaded machine guns held ready. The three criminals turned around in slow motion before immediately dropping their pistols, capitulating. At least they had the common sense to realize when they were overpowered; it was already more than what Q had expected of them. Just then they were grabbed by the local special agents and led away at once.

 

A tall, middle aged official approached the youngest boy with his right hand extended in a friendly welcoming manner, as if this were the most normal occasion for a reunion of old acquaintances.

 

“Quartermaster! We’re finally meeting in person.”

 

Q shook the man’s hand smiling.

 

“Colonel. It’s nice to meet you too. Thank you for your quick and highly effective help. It came just at the right time.”

 

“Oh, you don’t need to thank me. Just remember it when we will need your agency’s help next time.”

 

“I never forget, sir. I trust this stays between us?”

 

“Like always, Quartermaster. Like always. Allow me to praise your Serbian. I wouldn’t be able to tell you’re not native.”

 

‘Thank you, sir.”

 

“And I like this new look on you. Very unique. If I didn’t know it was you, I’d want to arrest you as well.” – Q just groaned at that. – But it _is_ indeed you, right?”

 

“Yes, sir, I can assure you it’s me.”

 

They said goodbye and soon it was only Q, Mycroft and Sherlock in the building. The two older brothers gaped at their young sibling.

 

“What was that all about?” – Asked Mycroft finally.

 

The boy waved dismissingly.

 

“Nothing worth mentioning. Just a splendid example for good, unofficial international cooperation. It comes in handy from time to time. Now I’m going to trace that call Tall made so that we can get rid of ‘the one he managed to talk to’ as well and be finally done with this ridiculous hunt for good. It’s getting rather tiresome.”

 

“Tell me about it…” – Muttered Sherlock under his breath as he was supported by Mycroft, slowly making their way out of the building.

 

**Q – Q – Q – Q – Q – Q – Q – Q – Q – Q – Q – Q – Q – Q – Q**

 

Q had indeed managed to trace the call and find a small group of the late Spectre hiding out in the Alps, waiting for someone to step into the shoes of the old Boss. The one who had really conveniently been killed by Sherlock without either of them even realizing the implication of it. The remaining people weren’t nearly smart or brave enough to begin anything for themselves though. The teenager had alerted their German counterparts to take care of them and had been in turn promised a quick feedback on the state of things as soon as it would be done.

 

They were now back at the hotel room and Sherlock was half-sitting half-lying on one of the beds. Mycroft was bent over him, dressing his wounds and checking for potentially more serious injuries. Luckily, so far, he hadn’t found anything that couldn’t be helped by a good night’s rest and plenty of food.

 

Q exited the bathroom, having just washed and dried his hair. He had also gotten rid of the tattoo, stubble and earrings. He was looking more like himself again, except for---

 

“Your hair looks green.” – Observed Sherlock from his position on the bed.

 

“That’s because I’ve only washed it once. It’ll be fine after the next time.”

 

“Hard to believe, seeing it now.”

 

The teenager stuck his tongue out at his brother but didn’t comment on the insult.

 

“What would you like to eat? I’m going out to get some food.”

 

“You don’t have to go. We can order something.” – Reminded Mycroft. He didn’t fancy his little brother walking alone in a foreign country. Who knew what could happen to him out there?

 

“Stop worrying. Yes. I can see it on your face. We were nearly killed a few hours ago; I doubt anything more dangerous could happen while getting food! Besides, I need to get something else too…” – He said blushing, looking anywhere but at his brothers.

 

Mycroft studied him for a minute with a calculating expression then sighed.

 

“Fine. Get us something Italian then. Nah, off you go!”

 

Q beamed and positively ran for the door.

 

“Okay! See you later!” – And he was already gone, green hair and all.

 

Sherlock just blinked.

 

“What else could he possibly need _here_?”

 

“A fridge magnet.”

 

“What?”

 

“Don’t ask. Just, don’t.”


	4. IV. Leave Behind Your Demons

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> This is the last chapter of the last story in the series. :)  
> (Two 'extras' to come, but that's not the same...)

Two days after their nearly-catastrophic-but-in-the-end-highly-successful mission in Serbia and their nerve-wracking flight home (because Q had passed out once again upon takeoff), Sherlock was lying on a cot in Holmes Manor, having been shaved and treated. He was still very skinny (even though still not nearly as skinny as his little brother by default) and weak but also looking already much better and a few hours ago already had had the strength to argue with Mycroft about the older brother dressing his wounds ‘too brutally’ and ‘deliberately causing unnecessary amount of pain’ with his administrations. In the end, Mycroft had huffed and given up on trying to check on all his wounds, opting to pout instead. Not that he would admit to it of course but – as Q had pointed out – it was unmistakably _pouting_.

 

The injured middle brother was slowly eating a slice of pizza right now, enjoying having real food after his long and uncomfortable captivity. He had to move careful because of his hurting wrists; reminders of having been chained to the ceiling for days.

 

His two brothers were sitting in front of him; Mycroft in his armchair and Q on the floor; watching him worriedly.

 

“You can both stop this unnerving staring. I’m not dying.” – Snapped Sherlock irritated.

 

“You could have fooled us in Serbia, brother dear.” – Reminded him Mycroft angrily. – “You’ll have to take it easy for at least another week, I hope you know that. I don’t want to hear you complaining about being bored or anything like that.”

 

“Okay.”

 

Mycroft blinked surprised.

 

“Okay?”

 

“Yes, okay! I just spent close to five months chasing after criminals and killing people. Oh, and not to mention: getting tortured. That was fun! So, yes, brother, I don’t mind a bit of a downtime.”

 

“That’s good. Fine.”

 

Q just remembered something important; something he had been meaning to discuss with his middle brother for ages.

 

“Sherlock, you’ll need to talk to Miss Hooper soon.”

 

“Molly? Why? What’s wrong with her?”

 

“She has a new boyfriend.”

 

“Well, then, it’s good for her. What does this have to do with me? Surely, you don’t think I’m the right person to talk to her about it?”

 

“You are, if her new boyfriend is her would-be assassin!”

 

“WHAT?”

 

“The sniper who was supposed to shoot her on Moriarty’s orders. Apparently, he didn’t want to act on his own accord but stayed close just in case he would get a new order sometime… You have to do something! I mean… come on, you _do_ care about her wellbeing, right?”

 

“All right, all right… Of course I do. I’ll see what I can do to get rid of him.”

 

“Just be your usual self when she introduces him to you. It ought to do the trick… He’s actually not any bad to her now but I still think he shouldn’t be around for long. He _used_ to want to kill her after all.”

 

Sherlock hummed in agreement and continued eating while Mycroft took a piece of pizza as well. Q, of course, politely declined. After about ten minutes of complete silence, each Holmes boy engrossed in their own thoughts, Sherlock piped up with an observation:

 

“You both came for me.”

 

“Brilliant, Sher! While this is not up to your usual standard; I’m glad you can remember what happened even though you were really out of it.” – Praised him Q delighted.

 

“You _both_ came, Benedict. Mycroft hates legwork and has never ever left his office for any field assignment before. And you took days off from your work, which you normally never want to leave even for sleeping, and _flew_ on a plane to Serbia to personally participate in a potentially deadly operation there.”

 

Older and younger brother shared a knowing look. They both understood this had been as close to a ‘thank you’ as they’d ever get from Sherlock Holmes.

 

“Yes, little brother, we did it all.” – Agreed Mycroft.

 

“And I got a magnet out of it. Not a bad deal, if I say so myself. We’d do it again.” – Nodded Q in continuation. – “Though I’d prefer not having to… You know. Travel this way.”

 

“So, you won’t be a fan of flying from now on?”

 

“You’re kidding, right?” – Q took a deep breath. Maybe it was time to tell them. He leaned back against Mycroft’s armchair and closed his eyes. – “We were sitting in the middle of the airplane with mom and dad. We could see the right wing from the window.”

 

Both his older brothers looked to the young boy in alarm. He remembered!? They had always assumed he had forgotten it all. He had only been two years old, scared and injured. Then he had spent weeks in coma! How could he still remember?

 

The teenager hadn’t opened his eyes so he couldn’t see the panicky stares. He took the silence as a cue to continue.

 

“I was so excited to be flying and the clouds were so beautiful! And I had Bibby Bunny…”

 

They remembered the sock animals their mother had made for all of them of course. Both of them still had their own. They had never even considered that their little brother didn’t even have _that_ much of their parents anymore…

 

“But then it suddenly all went to hell… It happened so quickly! There was fire and smoke on the wing outside and complete panic inside. ‘Just a little turbulence’, mom said ‘nothing to worry about’, but of course, it was not exactly true… I had read a lot about planes and crashes before the travel. That had been like an obsession.”

 

Mycroft and Sherlock could still very clearly remember the excited tiny boy asking thousands of questions about how planes can fly, why they stay up in the sky and what happens if they don’t… In the end, Mycroft had just let him read it all up on the internet, tired of the baby always finding his answers less than satisfactory. The small boy had spent two entire days doing research tirelessly before their trip.

 

“So I knew what to do. I climbed under my seat to be protected during the crash. I tried telling mom and dad to hide but they didn’t listen and insisted on the seatbelt… Then they got very injured and were dying in horrible pain. I saw them. They pleaded with me to help them but I couldn’t. I left them and they hated me for it. I saw the betrayal in their eyes.” – He finished in tears.

 

“WHAT!?” – Exclaimed his two brothers simultaneously.

 

Mycroft choked.

 

“You say they thought you _betrayed_ them by surviving?”

 

Q opened his eyes and looked at his brothers. They seemed worried about him. Not at all angry or disgusted. Should he hope…? Surely not. Surely they just didn’t understand the implication of it all yet, or somehow thought he was just joking. But who would joke with something like that!?

 

“Yes, they did. When we were already in the water and I came out from my hiding place… They were still sitting in their seats… alive but they couldn’t move. It was horrible. Dead or dying people and so much _blood_ everywhere. Those who were still alive were crying, screaming or moaning in pain. And mom and dad… You can’t even imagine. Obviously, I don’t want to go into details. At least _you_ shouldn’t have nightmares about it.”

 

Sherlock swallowed around the big lump in his throat, dropping his remaining piece of pizza. He had suddenly lost his appetite.

 

“You’ve never told us you can remember. We’ve never known you saw them…”

 

“I couldn’t say it. I actually couldn’t say anything for a while.”

 

“Is that the reason why you didn’t speak for ages? Not even your injuries?”

 

Q shook his head.

 

“I can’t remember having any injuries. I think I was too much in shock to notice pain. But I think… thought… think… that what happened to mom and dad was partially my fault. I thought you would hate me for losing them…”

 

“WHAT!?” – Came again from both.

 

“Why would you think such a stupid thing? We nearly lost you too! How would we think it was your fault?” – Asked Mycroft in disbelief. Had this crazy boy finally totally lost it?

 

“Well, it was for _my_ birthday, wasn’t it? If I hadn’t had birthday and hadn’t wanted to travel, we would never have been on that plane… I just thought…”

 

“Oh, my God, Benedict, for a genius you can be very stupid sometimes!” – Said Sherlock angrily. – You know what?” – He challenged.

 

“What?” – Asked Q dejectedly, expecting Sherlock to tell him to go to hell or die finally or something like that.

 

“I think these aren’t real memories at all.”

 

“Sherlock---“ – Mycroft tried to tell him off but didn’t get too far. The middle brother continued as if there hadn’t been any interruption.

 

“I think you’re confusing things. You went through a horrible ordeal, you were two years old, injured and in shock. Your mind has created scenes that didn’t happen at all. Well, not like that, anyway.”

 

“Sherlock, you’re crazy! _I can remember_!”

 

“No, you can’t. You just think you can. What you described isn’t a memory; it’s a nightmare. The mind does that to you.”

 

“It’s rubbish!”

 

“No, it’s not.”

 

“Sherlock, stop it right now! You’re making things worse!” – Warned Mycroft in a strict voice.

 

“No, I won’t stop it, because Benedict has to understand. I want you to remember! I mean _actually remember_! Not your nightmares but what really happened that terrible day.”

 

“I told you, these are real memories! Why are you doing this to me? Why won’t you believe me?” – Screamed the boy, getting up and shakily backing into the wall. – “Real memories! They were dying, they wanted me to help, they hated me for leaving them! It’s true, it’s all true!”

 

“No, it’s not. It can’t be. I knew our parents, they would have told you to go and not look back. These are no memories. This is your nightmare.”

 

“Sherlock, stop it right now!” – Repeated Mycroft, crouching down next to the by now only half-conscious teenager.

 

“No, I won’t! REMEMBER, Benedict! You need to remember!”

 

“Leave me alone! Just leave me alone, please!” – Sobbed to boy in total panic, scenes running in front of his eyes. He couldn’t see the room or hear his brothers anymore. He only had scenes about that day in his mind. The same scenes that kept revisiting him in his nightmares.

 

Except that some details were a bit different now…

 

_He was still groggy when he began to feel ice-cold water seeping into his clothes. They were indeed in the ocean then. He very carefully climbed out from under the seat and pressed the life vest to blow it up. It was too big for him to wear like it had been designed to be worn so he bound it with a knot to his wrists. He was thankful to Sherlock for teaching him ‘pirate things’. The water level was rapidly increasing and he knew he only had minutes to get out of the plane into open waters before the whole cabin would be filled._

_He looked around in search for his parents and he saw something he would most likely never be able to forget ever: everyone around him seemed to be dead or unconscious! His mommy’s head was slumped forward onto her chest and when he tried to rouse her she wouldn’t move. His dad’s eyes were closed. Neither of them was breathing!_

 

_The little boy wanted to scream and rage. He wanted to cry. Most importantly: he wanted his brothers there and his parents alive and this whole thing to just have been nothing more than a cruel nightmare! He felt like running. Fleeing. So that was what he did. He ran to the nearest emergency exit careful not to damage the life vest, ignoring everything around him. A motionless old man in one of the seats had ketchup all over his clothes from the sandwich he had been eating just before things had gone to hell… Everything was eerily calm and silent as if people had been just sleeping peacefully._

 

Q managed to calm his breathing a bit and opened his eyes. Mycroft was sitting next to him on the floor, trying to check his pulse. Sherlock was sitting up on the cot and wincing, but also watching him expectantly.

 

“So?”

 

The boy cleared his throat before shakily saying:

 

“They were already dead. They died on impact. They didn’t ask me for help or tell me to stay with them. They were dead… There wasn’t blood. They just… died. I saw them dead. Not dying.”

 

“Yes, so I thought. That happens when you hit something very hard without proper protection. There’s no pain, no blood; nothing. Only you had protection because you’re smart and you were small and quick to think. Mother and father must be very proud wherever they are now.”

 

“Do you really think that, Sher?”

 

“Of course! Which parent wouldn’t want their child to survive? And don’t you try blaming yourself! You didn’t break that plane! You didn’t even ask for that present! Mother and father could have died in a car crash or been run over by a truck or whatever. _You_ didn’t do anything!”

 

“So, you don’t think I’m the reason they’re dead? You REALLY don’t?” – Q still couldn’t believe they were telling the truth. He didn’t deserve it!

 

“Of course we don’t! It never even occurred to us that you would believe it. Oh my God.” – Answered Mycroft clearly horrified at the mere idea.

 

“I also thought that if you knew I saw them dying… (his voice cracked at that point and he had to stop for a moment) then you’d know I’d woken after the crash before falling into the water and you’d know I left them… willingly… behind to save myself. Then you would hate me even more.”

 

“Benedict, come here please.” – Commanded Mycroft pulled him into a standing position and steered him towards the armchair. He sat down himself first then patted his knees.

 

“What? Myc, I’m too old to sit on your lap!” – Protested the boy as he was yanked there anyway.

 

“Benedict, right now I couldn’t care less about you wanting to play the invincible adult so do all of us a favor and shut up. Listen to me. And listen good, young man: we would NEVER hate you for being alive. I don’t know how this could have crossed your mind for a minute. If you hadn’t left them behind, you would be dead now as well. You couldn’t have saved them. They would have wanted you to save yourself, I am as sure about that as Sherlock. Besides, I think we have established that you didn’t leave them behind while dying and in pain. Nightmares are not reality, little brother.” – Q just shrugged. – “Benedict!”

 

“I guess so…”

 

Sherlock tried to get up but then abandoned the idea at Mycroft’s stern look and let himself fall backwards onto the pillows again.

 

“Have you really felt guilty for surviving all this time?”

 

“I… think I have. Not consciously so but… yes. I think so. It certainly stopped me from being able to speak for a long time. I didn’t want to say all these things but then it meant I couldn’t say anything else either. It was like a punishment.”

 

“Jesus.”

 

“There was absolutely nothing to punish yourself for! You survived a plane crash because of your brilliance and quick thinking. That’s something you can be proud of!”

 

“But if I knew what to do, why didn’t I try to convince mom and dad more forcefully to do the same? Why didn’t I tell others to do it as well? I killed them with my silence!”

 

“Oh, come on! Do you think anyone else would have fit under the seat?”

 

He had actually never thought about it like that before… Really, nobody else would have fit under the seat… to his best knowledge, he had been the only baby onboard that particular flight. Then maybe he really couldn’t have helped them?

 

“I don’t think they would have fit.” – He admitted reluctantly.

 

“So, what’s the conclusion then?” – Pressed Sherlock further as if talking to a small child with limited understanding of the world.

 

“That I am not to blame for the crash.”

 

“And for leaving?” – Nudged him Mycroft.

 

“No, because they were already dead. There was nothing to do.”

 

“And for not preventing the crash or the deaths?”

 

“No, because I couldn’t have done anything.”

 

“Bingo. See: you _are_ a genius after all.”

 

Despite his brother’s mocking tone, he felt lighter than anytime during the last 15 years. He actually felt like laughing at his own stupidity. Some genius he was, indeed!

 

“It’s crazy. I wish I would have spoken with you right away. I could have spared myself fifteen years of repressed angst.” – He shook his head at this whole unlikely craziness. – “And it was only faulty engine. That’s all. Not even an attack…” – He added, slightly bitterly.

 

In fact, the crash hadn’t gotten much publicity back then, given the fact that it honestly hadn’t had anything to do with any previous terrorist attacks, even though of course that had been everyone’s first idea. But as soon as it had been established that the plane’s engine had simply given out, nobody had thought the matter so important anymore. There had been small articles reporting about everyone on board having died a tragic death but a small two-year-old boy who had miraculously managed to get out relatively unscratched and eventually even survive the accident with ‘only’ a coma. There was nothing more about what later happened to him – thank God for small miracles. He knew Mycroft had done his best keeping prying people away from his family and had never let it be brought to public that the ‘famous’ Holmes family had been involved at all. Until that very day nobody knew how and when the three brothers had become orphans.

 

“I guess Karim Nader was right after all…” – Mused Q quietly, as if to himself.

 

“Who?”

 

“He conducted an experiment about real happenings vs memories in relation to September 11, 2001. He found that over 70 percent of the participants had slight misconceptions about what they thought had seen/heard that very day. Actually, most of them would have bet they had seen on television the first plane hitting the North Tower right after it had happened. In reality though, this footage hadn’t been aired until the day after. Nobody was able to explain why they had all felt differently.”

 

“See, exactly my point. Our brain alters memories and that was what happened to you too. There’s nothing mysterious about it; it happens all the time. Only that by most of the occasions it’s not important and we never even realize it at all.” – Nodded Sherlock. – “Of course you would have been in shock and it’s just natural you saw everything to be even more horrifying than it really was.”

 

“That makes sense.” – Continued the train of thought Mycroft. – “I mean, small children tend to see monsters in the shadows. They’re absolutely sure it was there, moving under the bed or moaning in the closet behind closed doors and ready to attack them. They _see_ it and remember it. And it’s just in normal everyday life. I couldn’t even begin to imagine what an average child might have felt going through what you did, Benedict. You at least never saw monsters.”

 

“No. I saw blood and suffering instead… THIS was my constant monster. And I believed it for fifteen years! And I knew about this phenomenon! I knew that research and countless similar ones! Daniela Schiller went even as far as to say our memories change _every time_ we recall them and we always believe them to be real the way we’re recalling them at the given moment. I see PTSD nearly daily even in trained agents! How could I have been so _stupid_?”

 

“You’re not stupid. Just human.”

 

“I just… I feel… wow. I feel lighter.” – Marveled the boy. – “And so very tired.”

 

“We had a long few days. Go to sleep.” – Nodded Mycroft and let the teenager stand up. They both bid him goodnight and watched as he trotted half-asleep upstairs, never complaining about having to sleep in his old childhood room in Holmes Manor instead of going back to his own apartment. He somehow really didn’t want to be alone that night.

 

**Q – Q – Q – Q – Q – Q – Q – Q – Q – Q – Q – Q – Q**

 

As soon as they heard the boy’s door closing behind him, Sherlock turned to the oldest brother, rounding on him angrily.

 

“You shouldn’t have allowed him to go with you. He’s a boy, and it was dangerous. We could have lost him.”

 

“He insisted on going, what could I have done?”

 

“Maybe say no?”

 

“Have you ever tried saying ‘no’ to the kid, Sherlock? Besides, I’m ashamed to admit it but I really needed him. He was the one who planned, organized and led the whole operation to detail; I was just following his commands. He was full of ideas and knew whom to trust. He was an asset. I don’t think I could have done it without him.” – It was very hard for Mycroft to admit this but still: it needed to be said.

 

“He could have been an asset from here, just like in the past months when he was keeping in touch with me.”

 

“He insisted on going.” – Repeated Mycroft.

 

“Whatever. He will continue to have nightmares.”

 

“I know. But thanks to you, at least they’re going to be about the truth now and not something he had made up to torment himself with. How did you know he was not remembering correctly, anyway?”

 

“Oh, come on, it was so obvious! I can’t believe you didn’t realize it right away. Mother and father would never have behaved that way, not even if they had been really dying in pain. Benedict didn’t really know them that well but you and I did. We know what they were like.”

 

“That’s right of course. Come on, we should follow our little brother’s example and call it a night as well. We’ll have a lot to do, bringing you back to life and clearing your name in the next few days.” – He said as he helped Sherlock stand and climb the stairs, taking each step painfully slowly.

 

**Q – Q – Q – Q – Q – Q – Q – Q – Q – Q – Q – Q – Q – Q**

 

After he had helped Sherlock limp into his own room, Mycroft went to check on their youngest, to see if he was all right.

 

He found the boy fast asleep, lying halfway on his blankets, his right arm hanging limply over the edge of the bed. It seemed to be an uncomfortable position to sleep in, and yet, the teenager looked absolutely at ease and content. Like a huge weight had been lifted off his shoulders.

 

“What are we to do with you?” – Asked Mycroft fondly, as he tried to move the skinny limbs into a more adequate sleeping arrangement.

 

Q mumbled something about flying cars and disruption-causing fireworks. Just like when he had been sick, but now Mycroft knew for a fact that it was not mindless mumble-jumble but actual plans of the Quartermaster of MI6.

 

“Of course he would be dreaming about creating weapons even now.”

 

The youngest Holmes was finally fully covered and not in danger of suddenly falling off the bed anymore. Mycroft ran a hand through the boy’s messy locks (his hair was back to its original color by now even if it had taken four washes instead of the promised two…) which had the youngster turn into the touch with a happy little sigh.

 

“An adult, heh?” – Laughed Mycroft and with a final glance at his little brother, headed to his own bedroom to get some much deserved sleep.

 

A soft voice stopped him though.

 

“I really thought I’d killed mommy and daddy…” – Mycroft turned back to find his little brother’s startlingly green eyes lightning in the darkness much like a cat’s, looking expectantly at him. – “And I really believed you’d hate me if you ever found out.”

 

“I know you believed all these but I can assure you, this fear was entirely unfounded: we were there when you were born and they said you would die. We were there when exactly two years later you were in a coma because of the accident and again they said you would die. Ten years later we actually had to bury you and grieve for a year and a half. That was the most horrible day ever in history and the happiest when we learnt you were alive. We don’t even hate you for faking your death. We could never hate you, whatever you did. Even if you had done what you thought you did; we wouldn’t hate you. But you didn’t leave or kill them! You’re not at fault in anything that happened that day.”

 

“I know that now.”

 

“But do you also believe it?”

 

The teenager gave it a moment of thought before answering.

 

“Yes, I do. Now I do.”

 

“I’m glad. But we’re still going to regularly remind you.”

 

The boy smiled delighted, unseen by his brother in the dark room.

 

“Thanks, Myc. Oh, just one question: did you tell Sherlock about Mary Morstan?”

 

“No, I still haven’t had the opportunity… Did you tell him?”

 

“I didn’t either.”

 

“Oh, dear.”

 

“Indeed… You know he’ll go to look for John first thing tomorrow even if he’ll need to swallow an entire bottle of painkillers first? He’s never going to take your advice and recuperate for a week. Oooh, it’s going to be fun.”

 

“I’m sure we’ll hear about it soon enough. Well, sleep well, little brother.”

 

“You too.”

 

With that Mycroft left the room to do just the same, thinking that with brothers like these two, he’d need to catch as much rest as possible.

 

He was also sure he’d take any challenge they’d give him gladly.

 

**Q – Q – Q – Q – Q – Q – Q – Q – Q – Q – Q – Q – Q**

 

The next day, Q stood in the cemetery, in front of his parents’ grave. The only time he had been here before was Sherlock’s funeral and that time he had purposely avoided paying his respect to them, all the while telling himself he had to concentrate on faking being the mourning teenager he had been expected to be; in the reality feeling that he didn’t deserve to even glance at them.

 

Now he felt like he was able to even laugh at the sight of Sherlock’s useless headstone and of the place where his own one used to be. And he could even stand to actually look at his parents’ memorial.

 

“Ahm… Hi… Mom and Dad. I don’t know if you can hear me… Ahm… I feel totally stupid talking to a stone, but… well…”

 

He looked around helplessly to make sure nobody could hear him, before kneeling down to trace the scripts with his hand.

 

“I just wanted to tell you two that I’m all right now. I mean: really. Better than I ever expected to be. And Sherlock and Mycroft too. I don’t think there are going to be any more fake funerals. At least in the near future. We’re not planning secret missions or hunts either. Mycroft wants to concentrate on his political career now, which he claims to have a bit neglected lately. And Sherlock… well… who knows with him…? I think he’ll want to make amends with his friends. Yes. Friends. Really. I know it sounds unbelievable but I swear: he has found loving and loyal friends who seem to be able and also willing to put up with his attitude and I’m sure will forgive him even faking his own death. Who would have thought it possible?”

 

The teenager was slowly arranging the flowers he had brought with him into neat bouquets in two vases.

 

“I flew. On a plane. And it went… well… not as bad as I thought it would. But I passed out each time by takeoff. And you know what? No one laughed at me or made fun at me. Not Myc, not Sher. They didn’t say it was childish and ridiculous. Only one person had ever told me that… but that doesn’t matter anymore either because I can fight the fear. I know now that I can.”

 

The flowers looked very pretty and brightened the whole scenario perfectly. Even the boy’s mood was gradually improving.

 

“Imagine what! Mycroft has a girlfriend! And me too… Sherlock still doesn’t know; I think he’ll flip out when he finds out.”

 

He chuckled at the mental imagine of Sherlock fainting at the news, or better yet: running away screaming.

 

“I don’t think he’ll ever be interested in romance, to tell you the truth; he says his head hurts just thinking about it… But since he doesn’t miss it, I guess it’s all right. If he has cases to investigate with John Watson on his side and DI Lestrade to annoy, he’s good.”

 

The boy had finished with the flowers and had sat down cross-legged onto the ground in front of the headstone.

 

“I work in MI6. I’m the Quartermaster. The youngest ever. I guess it must sound pretty dangerous, but don’t worry: I have lots of people to look out for me. You don’t mind if I love some of them like parents and siblings…? I can’t help it… they raised me and have been there for me these last five years. That doesn’t mean I don’t love the two of you and Myc and Sher! Well, I hope you understand. And I hope you’re not sad I’m not ‘normal’. I know you wanted me to be, but… I’m not. None of us are. I’m sure you’d be all right with it. You wanted to teach me to be normal but you were never mad that I wasn’t. But if it helps: I’m not a psychopath. At least I don’t think I am. I’m sure some people would disagree…”

 

He chuckled a bit then stood up and wiped the dirt off his jeans.

 

“We’re trying to be good people, all three of us. It is not always easy but we’re doing our best. It’s all anyone can expect, right? I hope you can be proud of us. And we love each other and we’re always there to help if any of us needs it. Not that we would ever admit it, mind you. You won’t tell them I said it, will you?”

 

The youngest Holmes took two steps towards the exit before turning around, facing the tombs once again.

 

“Please, forgive me that I didn’t come sooner… it’s not easy to explain because it’s a very long and stupid story; one that I’m sure you wouldn’t want to hear. It’s okay now anyway. I promise I’ll try to come regularly from now on. I love you two. Bye, Mom and Dad.

 

 

**Epilogue**

 

 

After a memorable evening spent arguing over why they hadn’t told Sherlock about Mary Morstan and why they had let him make a fool of himself in front of John just to get punched in the face for his effort (“We didn’t tell you to try to surprise John! You’ve got as much sense of emotions as a teapot!” – “Should I remind you little brother how I had to find out about you being alive?” – “That’s completely different” – “No, it’s not.” – “It really isn’t, Benedict…” – “Oh, shut up, Myc, I can’t believe you’re taking his side!” – “I’m not taking anyone’s side; it was just an observation.” – “You know what, Mycroft? Do indeed shut up.” – “Now who’s taking whose side?” – “SHUT UP!”) and after Sherlock’s near heart attack upon learning that Anthea and 006 were a happy couple now (“I leave just for a few months and the world gets turned upside down! Next you’ll tell me you’re both in love!” – the other two blushed deep red like a tomato and tried to change the topic swiftly), Mycroft, Sherlock and Q entered MI6 together in the early morning of the following day.

 

As they were strolling towards M’s office, ignoring everyone around them, people gave them startled stares. It was not every day they saw Mycroft Holmes inside MI6 (as a matter of fact, it had only happened once and it still lived vividly in everyone’s memory), and it was an even rarer occurrence to see a dead man walking among them in absolute calmness. Unless that dead man happened to be James Bond, but that was a different story altogether because the man just couldn’t even die normally and by now, nobody expected him to.

 

By the time they had arrived to M, all of the Double-O agents were standing around them, along with a few more daring Q-Branch employees (R among them of course). Moneypenny and Tanner had joined the little committee halfway. That was the scene M found in front of his office door as he was about to enter to begin his day’s work.

 

As it was, he gave up on his plan immediately and gaped.

 

“Sherlock Holmes? You’re dead.”

 

Sherlock rolled his eyes and shook his head.

 

“And you’re the leader of MI6? I didn’t think they employ crazy people who see ghosts.”

 

“Sherlock, behave!” – Hissed Mycroft like a snake. – “We’ve talked about this. Excuse the behavior of our middle brother, Mister Mallory, he’s still a bit… well, he’s still Sherlock. Not much of a change there. Anyway, we’ve come to talk to you about something very important. Perhaps it’s not even bad everyone is here. It concerns you all after all.”

 

M had trouble finding his voice and nobody seemed to want to help him out. Finally he managed to get out:

 

“Wha--- What would you like to talk about?”

 

“We’d like to talk about an organization called Spectre.” – Clarified Sherlock and the effect was immediate: the agents stood up taller, Bond muttered ‘damn’ under his breath, Moneypenny and Tanner paled. The Q-Branch employees looked a bit uncertain but didn’t utter a word.

 

Everyone stared at the brothers questioningly.

 

The three Holmes men projected the power of a whole army, looking invincible together. It was no question for a second that Q didn’t belong to MI6 right now but to his brothers. At that precise moment he wasn’t their youngest ever, geeky and genius Quartermaster. He wasn’t a ‘boy’, a ‘teenager’ or a friend of any of them. Right now, he was a Holmes man, just like the other two. Dangerous. Powerful. Maybe even slightly crazy.

 

And something had happened. These three men had done something very important and everyone else was about to learn of it now.

 

Seeing that no one else was about to answer, Q stepped forward and handed M a thick folder.

 

“Spectre is done with. _It’s over_.”


End file.
